


My Favorite Was Yours

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Are Dumb, M/M, Marauders' Era, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-05
Updated: 2005-10-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius is tired of this shite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Favorite Was Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Lucksmiths.

The girl is pretty enough, and the way she smiles and runs her bare foot up along his calf under the table tells Sirius she is certainly willing enough, but he finds he is not. He hasn't been, not for a long time.

He pushes back his chair and stands abruptly. James cocks his head in inquiry and Remus narrows his eyes, but Sirius doesn't care.

"I'm tired of all this shite," he says, glaring down at Remus, "and I am going home."

He kicks his chair out of the way and stalks off. He sees Lily's hand on James's arm, but there is nothing holding Remus back but his own damn stupidity, and Sirius is so sick of it that for once, he doesn't even hope Remus follows.

Remus doesn't.

When Sirius gets home, he decides he isn't drunk enough yet, though he's still blindingly angry, so he finds and finishes the bottle of firewhisky he keeps in the cabinet next to the tin of shortbread biscuits James's mum sent him when he moved in. Sirius doesn't care for shortbread in the usual course of things, so the biscuits are stale, but he finds they soften up well enough when dipped in whisky, and eating them feels like some kind of giant fuck-you to the Remus in his head, who is scolding him for being a tosser.

He wakes the next morning -- afternoon, really -- covered in crumbs and sore from sleeping on the floor of his living room and, when he gets past the pain in his head and the sour taste in his mouth, still angry.

It's a cold anger now, though, instead of a hot one, so he calmly brushes the crumbs from his t-shirt and heads to the shower.

When he is clean and shaved and the world has stopped swaying in dangerous directions beneath his feet, he pulls on his leather jacket (finds money and a pack of fags in the right-hand pocket, left over from the last cool days of spring, and that softens his mood for a moment) and heads to Remus's.

He doesn't bother to warn Remus when he's coming over anymore, because it just leads to arguments.

Everything, it seems, leads to arguments these days, and Sirius is tired of it, tired of Remus's endless complications, his sidewise crabbing and oblique angles. Remus is always offbeat and off-center, but Sirius is going to strike right to the heart, and finally put a stop to Remus's arcane machinations, this web of schemes that was supposed to bring at least one of them happiness and has brought nothing but misery to both, though Remus seems too thick to suss that out.

Since Remus is not thick at all, Sirius knows there must be something else -- something more -- behind Remus's reluctance, and--

But no. He won't give credence to some of the more outré rumors he's heard floating around, about Voldemort and werewolves and freedom to run free on full moon nights.

Remus _has_ that freedom, has had it for five years now. It's Sirius's freedom he keeps going on about.

Sirius shakes himself, ignoring the slight chill prickling along his skin, and shoves open the door.

Remus's bedsit is freezing. The change in the weather makes Sirius a little melancholy -- even after two years away, he misses Hogwarts, especially in autumn. There's no fireplace, but the heat is clanking in the pipes, the smell of it rising damp and musty through the small room. Branches bang against the window, their silhouette on the shade looking like claws reaching out for him.

He shakes his head again and strips off his jacket and boots, dropping down onto the unmade bed, which, since he's not expecting company, Remus hasn't bothered to fold up into the sofa.

The sheets are chilly but they smell of Remus (and only of Remus, Sirius notes with relief, pressing his face into the pillows and breathing deeply), and Sirius sets about trying to warm himself, and them, wriggling around like a fish on a hook until he's burrowed underneath the comforter Remus never uses (and Sirius wouldn't need if Remus were here and willing to get into bed with him again), late afternoon sunlight giving the room a burnished glow that hides the utter bareness of it for a few minutes, making it look serene and uncluttered instead of cold and lonely.

He is less angry and more determined, sleepy-warm and comfortable, lost in hopeful daydreams of what will happen after Remus comes home, when he hears the door open and close, and Remus come in. He watches through lowered lids as Remus unwinds his tattered red and gold Gryffindor scarf from around his neck and lays it on the still clanking-and-steaming radiator, then takes off the worn brown corduroy jacket that is so thin the chill in the wind probably cuts Remus to ribbons when it blows, even this early in autumn. The jacket is slung over the chair, on top of the rest of the clothes piled there, and then Remus sits on top of the heap to unlace his boots.

Sirius watches, eyes open now, mesmerized by the economical movements of long fingers untying knotty laces, slowed slightly from the cold and stained with ink, knuckles prominent from being cracked far too often for anyone's peace of mind, a habit they've never quite convinced him to break.

"Hullo, Remus."

Remus gives him a quick grin that fades and Sirius imagines he's remembering he's not supposed to be happy to see Sirius, and certainly not in his bed.

Remus nods and leans back in the chair, heedless of the clothes he's crushing. "Sirius."

"I'm here."

"I see that."

"No, I mean," Sirius shifts a little, because he wants to look warm and seductive, but he also doesn't want to have an argument while flat on his back (he never wins that way), "I'm _here_."

When Remus doesn't seem to grasp the significance of this, Sirius swings his legs over the side of the bed with an annoyed, "Hmph." He slips to his knees in front of Remus, resting his hands on Remus's thighs, shivering at the difference between the warm bed and the chilly room, the wind-touched denim covering Remus's legs cool against his fingertips.

Remus goes still, something he's exceptionally good at, and his gaze never leaves Sirius's face. His eyes are wary, and in the sunlight, Sirius can pick out the grey in his hair. He looks tired, Sirius thinks, and unhappy. Sirius knows he can fix that, if Remus will let him.

"I'm through with your nonsense," he says, which wins him a delighted laugh.

"You sound just like McGonagall."

Sirius twists his mouth into a comical frown that quickly becomes a pout. "You always did fancy her."

Remus snorts, but doesn't deny it.

"I'm here," Sirius goes on, trying not to think about _that_ , "and I'm not leaving."

"Not ever?" Remus's mouth curves into a smile and he reaches out, cups Sirius's cheek with one warm hand. Remus's hands are always warm, and Sirius misses that. He leans into the touch.

"Well, I'd prefer if we actually lived in my flat, because it's bigger, " _and warmer_ , "but this place has a certain disreputable charm to it, much like its occupant."

Remus closes his eyes, golden lashes curling over cheeks slowly fading from summer-tanned to winter-pale, and turns his head away, but his smile doesn't disappear, and his fingers move softly against Sirius's skin. Sirius turns his lips to kiss Remus's palm, breathe him in.

"I'm tired of seeing other people, and waking up alone. I tried it your way, Remus. I tried to get over you, tried to stop wanting to kiss you and touch you and fuck you. I tried to forget what you taste like, and how you like your tea, and the sounds you make when you come." Remus flushes and Sirius reaches up to touch his cheek. "Look at me, Remus. We tried it your way, and I didn't like it, any of it. That 'let's just be friends, let's see other people, we're too young and stupid to know what we want' shite of yours is bollocks. All of it. I don't think you liked it either." He stares up at Remus, hoping he's finally found the right words, that Remus will give in this time, because it's been months now, and Sirius can't take it any longer. "You didn't, did you?"

"No," Remus answers, and his voice is like a hinge rusty with disuse. "I really didn't."

"I didn't think so." Sirius slides up into his lap, ignoring the creak of the springs and the mess they're making of Remus's meager wardrobe, squashed beneath them. "You're an idiot, you know."

"I had to know," Remus says, pushing a hand through Sirius's hair, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine. "And you had to know, too."

His lips are pressed to Remus's when he says, "Well, now we do." And when Remus's mouth opens beneath his, Sirius is sure that this is one argument he's not going to lose.

end

***


End file.
